


Willingness

by imadra_blue



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon - Video Game, Drama, Humor, M/M, One Shot, Post-Canon, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Sex Pollen, Trope Subversion, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, brief mentions of past abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 15:08:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3772849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imadra_blue/pseuds/imadra_blue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Zevran is hired by the Grey Wardens to help take out a Venatori stronghold, an experimental plant there releases spores that inflict Alistair with a particularly unusual debilitating effect.  Zevran's treatment of him proves to be surprising for both parties.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Willingness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Moontyger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moontyger/gifts).



> Many thanks to [emotionalmorphine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/emotionalmorphine) and [marmolita](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marmolita) for all their amazing help, consideration, timeliness. I especially couldn't have done this without emotionalmorphine's _willingness_ to let me bounce ideas off of them (do you see what I did there?).
> 
> I hope you enjoy, Moontyger. You may or may not laugh when you find out who wrote this.

…

"Now, I know what you said earlier," Zevran whispered, "but are you certain you should be going in there?"

Alistair crouched by a shrub and glared back at him. The last decade had lent weight to his glares, offering him a stern authority that no doubt proved quite useful when commanding other Wardens. It also made him even sexier, which was a shame given his apparent lack of interest in ridiculously handsome Antivan elven men. "Wonderful time to ask. Would you rather I sent you here to kill everyone by yourself?"

"Why not? If you succumb to whatever anti-Warden tricks the Venatori have been developing in there, you're a liability to me. Surely you realize this?" Zevran glanced at the mountainside manse they were trying to sneak into. Only a few lights shone through the large windows. The lone guard outside gazed over the cliff at the night-shrouded sea. These Venatori were careless, like many rich people. "Perhaps you should remain here, yes? Allow me to earn a bit of a bonus for this job? I could use the coin, my friend."

"No. I will have to risk it, as I told you earlier. Unlike my men, I have templar training. I can handle a little magic. I will not let the Venatori do as they please with the Wardens any longer. If you don't think you can handle this job—"

"Come now, that wasn't what I was suggesting. More like the exact opposite, no?"

"Then let's go." Alistair crawled away, ducking by the stone railings of a veranda. The last ten years had also made Alistair grumpier it seemed. At least they had also improved his marvelous back. His Warden armor highlighted the curve of his back muscles, adding to the more obvious appeal of his broad shoulders and firm ass.

Zevran yet again mourned Alistair's narrow preferences, but he had no time to dwell on the might-have-beens during the Blight. He circled past Alistair, snuck up behind the guard and slit his throat before he could cry out. After pushing the guard over the railing and into the churning sea below, Zevran spotted Alistair crouched by a thick wooden door. Alistair nodded once and turned the door handle, but the door did not budge. He glanced expectantly at Zevran.

Sighing, Zevran pulled out his lockpicking tools and approached the door. Lucky for both of them, the Fifth Blight had given him plenty of experience at picking locks....

...

Whatever tricks the Venatori had up their sleeves Wardens, they all seemed to fail against Alistair. His templar training did indeed seem to protect him. Zevran had little time to dwell on the matter. There were an awful lot of Venatori and their guards to cut down. Zevran was quite grateful for Alistair's sword and shield by the time their last opponent fled the manse. The mage ran towards a greenhouse across the lawn as if a pack of mabari hounds chased at his heels.

"Bastard," Alistair snarled, switching his shield to the left hand to shake his right out. A tiny arc of lighting still sparked along his right hand for a moment before dissipating. "We can't let him get away."

"Relax, my friend, he's just one lone mage. We shall take care of him. Rest here. Allow me—" Zevran began, stepping past Alistair, but Alistair held out his hand and stood up straight.

Alistair shook his head. "No. It wasn't your order those damn mages humiliated and played like puppets. I'm going in first." He marched towards the greenhouse.

Zevran approached more warily. Moonlight glittered off the greenhouse glass, obscuring everything inside from view. Alistair threw open the door, shielding himself from another lightning attack, and rushed in. Zevran slid in after him, a sinking feeling settling in his stomach.

His instincts proved well-founded when the mage, a young man with a terrified look on his pasty face, blasted a large flowering plant near Alistair with raw magic. Zevran dove under a nearby table, knocking boxes of nightshade onto the ground. Blue spores sprayed everywhere, covering Alistair and one of Zevran's legs. Immediately, Alistair started screaming. Zevran had never known Alistair to make much of pain before, no matter how much a fool he had seemed during the Blight. The sound of it forced Zevran to roll out from under his table and fling a dagger in the mage's direction.

A high-pitched shriek piercing through Alistair's screaming suggested Zevran's aim had proven true. Zevran pulled his leather coat over his head and covered his mouth with his scarf before dashing towards the shrieking.

When Zevran cleared the cloud of blue spores, the mage had pulled Zevran's dagger from his arm. His pointed hood had fallen back, revealing short brown hair and dark tattoos on his neck. Zevran had seen such tattoos before, on a Tevinter magister that had been one of Zevran's early kills. The man had claimed they were a mark of mastery over slaves. He had shown Zevran that mastery for days after chaining Zevran to his bedpost. He had been as cruel as the Crows who taught Zevran not to scream. Just as the Crows had taught him, Zevran had not made a sound until he freed his arm and choked the man to death. Even here, even now, Zevran made no sound as he rushed the last mage. The mage was still too distracted with his wound to notice Zevran. Slicing his blade through the mage's throat gave Zevran no little satisfaction.

"Well, that was fun, no?" Zevran said, adopting a light tone as he tried to shake away the memory of cold metal chains biting into his wrists. The mage collapsed, still gushing blood. Zevran glanced around. The blue spores had all drifted to the floor. Alistair lay curled up amidst them, his hands balled into fists, his sword and shield fallen nearby. He shook, but at least he had stopped screaming.

Zevran pulled his gloves down and readjusted the scarf across his face. He knelt by Alistair and rested a hand on his shoulder. "Can you speak, my friend? Did you breathe it in?"

Alistair drew ragged breaths. When Zevran turned his face up, his pupils were so dilated his eyes seemed swallowed by them. "It hurts," he whimpered. Sweat had beaded across his brow, collecting near the spores still attached to his face. Zevran brushed them off, collecting a few and shoving them into a glass vial. If they were poison, he could find an antidote. Zevran poured a general purpose antidote down Alistair's throat, but it seemed to have little effect. Alistair still clawed at air and looked to be in pain.

"Let's get you up and out of here," Zevran said, hoping Alistair would survive long enough for Zevran to figure everything out. As he put an arm around Alistair's back, attempting to help him up, Alistair hissed and clamped a hand around Zevran's arm.

"It hurts," he repeated, bending over, looking particularly angry. "Maker's Breath, what did he do to me?"

Zevran pulled at Alistair again, managing to get Alistair to his feet, which was no easy feat given that Alistair was more than twice his size. "No idea, my friend. Everyone else is dead, so I can get you somewhere to rest. Come, let's clean you up."

Alistair winced with every step they took, remaining hunched over. He left one arm tucked across his groin and the other around Zevran's shoulders. Zevran could feel Alistair's heart racing even through his armor. "We should have brought a mage," Zevran said, hoping Alistair would not die. They were hardly bosom buddies, but they could be called friends. They had defeated an archdemon together, after all. It was what one could call a bonding experience.

"No Warden mages left. Ruined by Corypheus and the Venatori," Alistair grunted. He winced when Zevran led him up a few steps, back into the manse. They limped down the stone halls, past corpses of their own making. Not the most ideal place to rest, but at least the corpses weren't moving. Zevran could not say that much for every place he had ever rested in. As hard as Alistair was breathing, Zevran worried he might expire at any moment, but they managed to get into one of the sitting rooms. Zevran lay him on a couch. He found a washbasin and cloth, which he used to wipe as much spore residue off Alistair as possible.

Alistair continued to curl up on the couch, his expression suggesting the desperation of a man on the verge of death. His fingers wore holes into the fabric of the couch. When Zevran tried to move away, he snatched Zevran's wrist. "It hurts. Never felt anything like it," he gasped.

Even after a firm tug, Zevran could not extricate himself from Alistair's grasp. "My friend, you need to let me go, so I can you make you a proper antidote."

"Please help me," Alistair whispered, pulling Zevran close. Shock rendered Zevran still and he put up no resistance even when Alistair started kissing his neck. Alistair's fingers tightened around his wrist.

During the Blight, Zevran had flirted with Alistair once or twice, but Alistair had shown no interest. Alistair was a large, attractive man, and Zevran had a weakness for large, attractive men, but his size had grown intimidating now. Alistair smelled pleasantly musky, but Zevran did not care for Alistair's iron grip. The desperation in Alistair's voice had a tenor to it that made Zevran's skin crawl, reminding him of a man on the rack, begging for his torment to end.

"Please, it hurts," Alistair begged. He pressed his lips pressed against Zevran's ear, one hand wandering down to Zevran's belt. "Let me fuck you. Or fuck me. I don't care. Just, please, help me come. I'll do whatever you want."

As mild as that plea was to Zevran's brothel-raised ears, it was filthy for a Chantry-raised man like Alistair. His sudden desire for sex while suffering from some sort of magical plant toxin made Zevran suspicious. He reached down between Alistair's legs and found a raging erection straining against Alistair's breeches. But as soon as his hand brushed it, Alistair gave a gurgled cry, his entire body shaking, and he released Zevran.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Alistair moaned, curling up on the couch again, grimacing. "I need it, I need it, but it hurts."

"Listen, take it from the voice of experience, that it's not supposed to hurt, my friend. Quite the opposite, actually." Zevran backed off and stood up again, free from Alistair. "It is most certainly not fun if you're in pain, and having fun is a basic requirement for sex, I think. You wait here, yes? I'll try to make you an antidote."

Alistair lay flat on the couch, staring up at Zevran, his gaze as hot as a Deep Roads lava flow. "Please. I need you. You—you like sex, right?" He started to sit up again. "Why not me? Only me that hurts. Please, whatever you want. What do you like? I'll do it. Just tell me." He reached for Zevran again. "You want me to suck your dick?" His voice turned husky. "I'll do it. Just come back."

Zevran stared. Never in his wildest imagination had he ever considered Alistair would speak to him like that. All those words sounded so wrong coming out of his mouth. Especially when he looked as he did, face flushed, breath ragged, expression desperate. But this was not done in a fashion Zevran could appreciate. His lack of choice with the Crows had led Zevran to insist his bedmates be willing and wanting—emphasis on willing. Whatever Alistair was asking, his pain and desperation placed no emphasis on anyone's willingness.

"You are not thinking clearly. Those spores did something to make you.... disturbingly libidinous." Zevran backed away. "Try to take care of it yourself while I'm gone, yes?" With that, he marched back out of the room and locked the door behind him. Just in case Alistair got ideas.

Exploring the manse's halls soon led him down to a basement magical laboratory. Tevinter magisters were predictable, if nothing else. Only two corpses lay in there, both of them dispatched by Zevran's own hand. He dragged them out of the way before he started investigating the paraphernalia. There were various magical concoctions in stopped inside vials and bottles, all helpfully labeled for the apprentices. Zevran smirked. He brought out his own satchel of poison ingredients, his collection of the blue spores, and set to work.

...

It took a couple of hours to figure it out. Zevran was no alchemist, but it seemed the spores had both aphrodisiac and pain qualities. They also had a unique magical quality that seemed to only respond to someone with the taint in them. None of the spores that had touched Zevran had any effect. The plant with the blue spores seemed developed by the Venatori to sabotage the Grey Wardens. Zevran used a bit of it in a general antidote base and added some antitoxins for dealing with plants. He wasn't sure if it would work, but it was worth a try.

Once Zevran unlocked the door to the room he had left Alistair in, he peeked inside. Alistair was still curled up on the couch, wheezing, but unmoving. Zevran crept in, hoping he was asleep, but Alistair turned a bit, staring at him with bloodshot eyes.

"It hurts too much," Alistair muttered. "It won't come out."

Zevran held up the antidote vial. It had a milky blue-grayish color. "Drink this, my friend. Hopefully, it will help. Let us be glad these spores are not fatal and merely painful, yes?" He wondered if the Venatori had intended the plant to leave Wardens in this pathetic condition or if they intended something even worse. Unfortunately, anyone who could tell them that was dead now. He handed the vial to Alistair.

After a moment, Alistair snatched it from him and drank it immediately. His hands trembled and he made a face—no doubt at the taste—but he managed to get it all down. He dropped the vial on the carpet next to him and then curled back up on the couch. "What now?" he asked.

Zevran sat by the couch, crossing his legs. "Now, we wait. And hope my antidote works—or the effects wear off, yes? When you are feeling better, then we can leave this place, I hope. Our efforts here will start to smell eventually."

Alistair sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, that I—"

"No need for apologies. These sorts of things happen, no? Just focus on, ah, your recovery."

They both fell silent after that. Zevran leaned back against the couch and let himself drift into a light doze. All the efforts of traveling here, killing everyone, and then trying to make a unique antidote had left him rather tired. Alistair's heavy breathing lulled him asleep. He awoke when Alistair's hand draped over his head. Zevran turned to study him as he removed the hand, surprised at how warmed he was by it. Alistair woke at the movement and glanced at Zevran.

A smile ghosted over Alistair's face, and he withdrew his hand. "Pain's gone." He sighed. "Why do all the embarrassing things happen to me? The Maker must be off having a laugh at my expense right now. Again."

"Better you than me, my friend." Zevran stood and yawned, stretching a bit. To his surprise, Alistair eyed him with interest. "If you are well enough, let's be off."

"The pain's gone, but I... er." Alistair reddened a bit and licked his lips. It was a distracting movement. "I'm still..." He trailed off and looked away.

"Ah, say no more, my friend. I well understand that condition. I shall give you time alone, yes? Perhaps I should go burn down that greenhouse before we leave. I've a jar of Antivan fire for the job, too."

Alistair's lips parted, and he studied Zevran. He took Zevran's wrist in hand, his grip far gentler now. "I don't, I mean I—" He glanced down, blond lashes brushing against his cheek. "Maker's Breath, this is hard to say when I don't feel like I'm on fire."

Zevran debated slipping away, but he was a weak man, and Alistair seemed almost back to normal now. "Ah, well, though I can guess your meaning, I am a bit pedantic on these matters. Especially when someone just recovered from a particularly debilitating toxin of some sort. Please do be precise about what you are saying." He rather enjoyed the bright scarlet shade Alistair turned. But even as tempting as Alistair was, Zevran did not feel quite right about the situation.

"I—" Alistair swallowed. "We could... have sex. Together, I mean. I don't know if you want to, but if you don't want to, of course you don't have to," he added.

Zevran laughed and slipped his hand free. "My friend, I am not the problem. Had you not been so profoundly Fereldan during the Blight, I would have had my way with you long ago. But I cannot be entirely sure if that isn't still those spores talking, no? So I decline not out of lack of interest, but because I don't know if you are truly willing. And I find willingness very sexy, in truth."

"Oh," Alistair said, dropping his gaze. He looked remarkably like Dog when scolded for chewing on Morrigan's discarded boots.

"Don't look like that. You can always make that offer to me again, later, after you've seen a healer to check on your recovery." Zevran fished one of the vials of oil he always kept on hand and tossed it at Alistair. "Here, to help you along in your endeavors, my friend. I'll go set fire to that greenhouse and wait for you at the entrance." He sauntered out then, hoping Alistair was watching his ass. It was an incredible ass, after all.

When he turned to close the door behind him, Alistair was indeed watching him with his mouth slightly open, still clutching the oil in his hand.

…

Alistair was silent during the return hike to the Grey Warden camp. They arrived by dawn. Once surrounded by his subordinates, his stern demeanor returned. As alluring as that was, it was clear there was no place for Zevran amongst them. While the Wardens discussed their situation, he withdrew and got some sleep.

By evening, the Warden's lone alchemist declared Alistair recovered. He accepted Zevran's samples for further study. At least it seemed Zevran had chosen wisely when declining Alistair. When acting normally, Alistair appeared uninterested in him. After receiving his payment, Zevran slipped back to his tent to pack and leave.

Even though he had just been paid, Zevran knew his coin could only stretch so far. Since leaving the Crows, he had been living job to job. As he headed out of the camp, he considered heading to Skyhold to see if Leliana required an extra employee, but then he heard his name being called.

"Wait," Alistair said, approaching with a fearsome scowl. "Maker's Breath, you wasted no time trying to get out of here."

"Yes, well, I didn't wish to outstay my welcome. I thank you for the job, pleasure doing business with you, etcetera etcetera. There is nothing else to do, no? I didn't wish to interrupt your Warden business. It seems quite important, yes?"

Alistair crossed his arms. "You could always join the Wardens, you know. Aeducan never offered that to you, did she?"

"She did, actually, but I must decline you as I did her. It is not my style, I confess."

"Not enough assassinating for you?"

"I was going to say because it doesn't pay well and I've had my fill of darkspawn, but I suppose that works, too."

"I suppose I was being uncharitable," Alistair said with a sigh. "I apologize. You have proven to be a man of surprising integrity."

Zevran scowled. "What have I done to deserve such a grievous insult?"

"There are worse insults than an accusation of integrity," Alistair commented, sounding sour. "In any case, you took care of me when I was... under that plant's influence. And you left me some dignity, even after I was abrasively forward. Thank you, Zevran. I mean that."

"Ah, well." Zevran looked away, warming at Alistair's praise. Simple words should not have such an effect on him. "We are friends, are we not? Think nothing of it."

Alistair stepped closer to Zevran, his expression softening as he stared down at him. "But I do think something of it. A lot of somethings, actually. I—well." He paused, coloring red again. "The things I said didn't just spring out of the Void. Those spores made me... more honest. That's all." He cleared his throat.

Zevran laughed, quite warm now from Alistair's admission. He only hoped it didn't show on his face as if he were some child. "Well, of course you meant them. I'm dreadfully attractive, yes? Everyone knows this." He closed the distance between Alistair and himself, tilting his head up to study him. "Did you care to do something about it?"

Alistair smiled. "I don't have brandy, but I do have a bottle of rum, a large tent, the sturdiest cot in camp, and my own supply of oil."

"Come again?" Zevran asked, stunned. He expected to wake from this sudden fantasy at any moment.

Alistair bent down to whisper in Zevran's ear. "I didn't even get to come the first time, so ask me that later." He cleared his throat and turned back towards the camp, his face still red, but the smile on his face remaining.

"You are full of surprises, Warden Alistair. I like that in a man," Zevran said with a laugh, and fell into step beside him.

Once they arrived in Alistair's tent, things turned into a bit of a blur. Alistair indeed had a bottle of Rivaini rum, and it was quite strong. The world set to swimming in a fashion Zevran could appreciate. He soon forgot the stupid jokes they tossed about, but he did not forget Alistair's hot kisses planted across his face and neck. Nor did he forget how smooth Alistair's skin felt when Zevran pulled his Warden whites and blues off. At first, Alistair's touch was gentle, tracing the curves of his tattoos on his back, but the more they kissed, the more urgent his touch grew. Zevran thrilled at every touch, but demanded more. Mouths skimmed over jaws and throats, kissing nipples and stomachs, sucking on lips and collarbones. Hands kneaded hips and asses, sliding over backs and thighs, stroking chests and cocks.

The rum left Zevran feeling weightless. He didn't drift back into solid reality until Alistair was spilling oil over his fingers and asking to fuck him. Zevran was more than willing to give permission. Alistair wasted little time in slipping his fingers into Zevran. He seemed intriguingly well-educated in such matters as he stretched Zevran's opening.

"Hold me down," Zevran whispered when Alistair withdrew his fingers, leaving Zevran empty and wanting.

Alistair complied, leaving Zevran gasping. He strained a bit under Alistair's grip, but only because he liked the way Alistair had pinned his wrists back. When he had given permission, there was nothing more freeing than restriction. There was only a slight burn as Alistair thrust into him, but it was the sort of burn Zevran liked, one that promised a sweet ending. He made a noise in the back of his throat and strained again until Alistair thrust into his sweet spot. The sudden bursts of pleasure wrangled moans out of him, but Zevran didn't care. The look on Alistair's face suggested he enjoyed it just as much.

Alistair's grip on him grew tighter, and he kept gasping as the roll of his hips grew more fevered. His sweat-slick skin slid again Zevran's, his stomach rubbing against the underside of Zevran's cock. Every thrust built Zevran's pleasure twofold. Zevran arched his back and smiled when Alistair bent down to bite his shoulder. Just the right accent of pain to make the pleasure even sweeter. Exactly the way he liked it.

The rhythm of Alistair's thrusts built deeper, and Zevran rode it out, his thighs closing around Alistair's waist. Alistair gave a low keen and came hard, rocking into Zevran so fiercely that he almost collapsed his cot. The sudden intense friction against his cock brought Zevran to his own orgasm. He whited out for a moment, his whole body echoing with pleasure after he came. He felt boneless as he returned to his senses, satisfied in the heady way only good sex could provide. Alistair released Zevran's wrists with a soft grunt and bent down to kiss the spot on Zevran's shoulder that he had bitten. As his warm breath hit Zevran's bit shoulder, Zevran turned to nibble on Alistair's tiny ear. Alistair laughed and then drew Zevran to him, holding him as close as an actual lover might. It felt quite surreal, especially with the mix of rum and afterglow in Zevran's system.

Neither of them apparently felt the need to comment. Zevran was content to enjoy the warmth of another person. Alistair soon fell asleep tucked against him. No one had fallen asleep with Zevran in years. Not since Isabela, and that had been some time. Zevran ran his fingers through Alistair's thick blond hair. Alistair muttered something incomprehensible and nuzzled closer to him. Zevran sighed, and after a few moments, decided to sleep himself.

As comfortable as Alistair was, Zevran could not remain asleep. He awoke before dawn and unwound himself from Alistair's embrace to sit up. Alistair made a small noise, but did not wake. A crease appeared between his eyebrows, and he moved his arm until it draped over Zevran's lap. Only when he drew closer to Zevran did the crease disappear. Zevran ran finger over Alistair's brow. Alistair proved to have no hesitance once his Warden whites and blues came off, which made Zevran wonder at his experiences—or at least what sort of books he had read. He was quite an intriguing puzzle, worldly and naïve all at once. Zevran ghosted his lips over Alistair's and then turned to stand.

To his surprise, Alistair wrapped his arm around Zevran's waist and drew him back, pressing him close. "You keep trying to leave," he murmured, eyes still closed.

"Yes, I quite enjoyed myself, and I hope that you did, too, but our time is over, no?"

Alistair yawned and sat up. He studied Zevran, brown eyes intense even in the moonlit tent. "Doesn't have to be. You could stick around. But I suppose you like it better this way. Always passing through." He sighed and let Zevran go. "Well, at least it was fun." He frowned, the crease in his brow returning, and dropped his gaze to the side.

Zevran stroked Alistair's jaw. Alistair had the same strange stubble that human men always possessed even after shaving. "You wish me to stay?"

"Well, yes." Alistair returned his gaze to Zevran, every bit as intent and as warming as a kiss. "I don't have many friends left, Zevran. Not even that many Wardens. There is... trouble at Weisshaupt. And the business with the Venatori isn't entirely over—even with Corypheus dead, they obviously still are working against us. I could always use your help. And I do enjoy... this..." He leaned forward and kissed Zevran's neck, his lips warm and soft, sucking ever so slightly, leaving Zevran warmed through.

"Truly?" Zevran tilted back to looked back at Alistair's face. "If you wish me to remain, I suppose there's no harm in it. And even less harm in continuing 'this' as you so put it. If that is what you desire."

Alistair tilted his head. "I desire, but you're not really telling me what you want. Listen, it took a magical Warden-targeting debilitating plant spore to get me to confess. When I was young, I had some ridiculous romantic notions, and I won't foist them on you, but maybe a few indulgences of them might be nice. Must I be the only one embarrassing myself here? What do you want?"

Answering proved quite difficult. Zevran's way was to dissemble before interrogations on his emotions, and he didn't try to dwell on them too long lest they start to hurt. He didn't try to want too much, because he would always be left wanting. And usually people left it at that. But Alistair sat next to him, studying him with intense sincerity, demanding an answer. Demanding Zevran confess his own wants.

"Yes," was all Zevran could muster at that point. He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Alistair. Alistair returned the embrace as Zevran kissed his stubbled jaw.

"Good. I find willingness pretty sexy, too," Alistair murmured and drew Zevran back down onto the cot with him.

.

_End._


End file.
